


The Offer

by hannibanni753



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: D/s, Forced Submission, Kidnapping, M/M, Pre-Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibanni753/pseuds/hannibanni753
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An invasion into MI6 has only one purpose: abduct the Quartermaster. When a dubious offer is forwarded to them, and noone is eager to act upon it, Bond is the one to jump in headfirst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Offer

When they came, they came prepared. Almost like machines, everything was planned. Every person was accounted for. Every problem was anticipated. When they came, MI6 was powerless. They came for him and he was oblivious at first. They came in silence and their takeover was absolute and crushing, and yet so clean and so efficient. It almost had a taste of gentleness. A silent takeover of one entity so complete and fitting.

They came for him and he was standing still. He was deeply in thought tinkering in his workshop. When they crushed the door, it was the only sound and he looked up, surprised.

He took the sight in, memorizing every detail for him to play over and over in his head later. Time stood still. Gun men rushing in, guns drawn, faces concealed. He had no chance. He was collected when they incapacitated him. He made no sound. He had known the day would come. His brain, boon and bane. He drew one breath bracing himself when his head hit the desk and something sharp pierced his neck. Soon after this the dizziness set in. By the time they left the building they had to drag him along. Everything went black.

As he woke it was no pleasant way. Dangling chains in the darkness ripped into his flayed flesh. His feet could touch no ground. The coldness clawed at his skin, went into his bowels and soaked his bones. He hanged there like old meat, forgotten and left to rot.

His back was afire. Something dripped off him lazily. They must have whipped him beforehand. He had no sense for time.

Q was a calm and quiet person. He did not like the noise of other people or great events. He liked the peaceful quiet. He liked his workshop better than the wide office space with his employees, where they were buzzing around, where he had to meet and communicate with agents and superiors alike. But now when he was left alone and noone came and no sound was heard - except for the occasional clink of colliding chains above his head - the pain in his shoulders and back transformed steadily into agony. And there was nothing there to focus on instead. The silence now was deafening, it made him mad, and for the first time in his life Q screamed.

He stopped when noone came. His throat was raw. Time felt like eternity, although his mind told him it could only have been mere hours, maybe a day, no more than two. A person can go without water for around three days before one dies, his mind provided. Cramps set in the second day. That was when he first thought of the cyanide. When he felt for his tooth for reassurance he found to his horror that the capsule had been removed. He sobbed in despair.

When another wave of cramps surged up, he tried for the hundredth time to lift his knees to ease his position. But there were weights chained to his ankles. It strained his shoulders further. From time to time he let a whimper escape his mouth just to hear the echo and to make sure he was still there.

He wasn't used to eating much. But on the third day the sting of hunger consumed his brain and body fully. However, while his back remained a crackling background fire, the worst was still the thirst. He felt his skin go dry and itchy. His throat had nothing left to swallow and the head ache was overwhelming. The cramps now didn't seem to cease anymore. He croaked for water. Noone seemed to hear.

He wished for death with all his heart. It wasn't long now, he told himself. Thoughts came sparsely now. Despite the cramping pain that constantly was rippling through his body, he slowly drifted off. All strength had left him. The pain however never failed to linger.

Ice cold water was splashed on his face. It was the shock alone that brought him back. The darkness was replaced by brightness that hurt his eyes, even when kept shut. He was laying down, fixated. It should have been relief that wavered through his body. Instead it was current shooting through his nerves.

He was suprised at how much his slim body could endure.

They hadn't asked him a single question yet. And he felt spent for a whole life time. When they were done pushing him on the verge of electrocution, they let him be. Unmoving and immovable, immobilized. He couldn't so much as inflect a finger. He looked a sight, pitiful creature that he was. But pity, there was none for him. They let him be. Until he drifted off into oblivion. Then they woke him brutally. They did not let him sleep for days. Sometimes he got some sips of water. It was stale, but he drank it eagerly. His skin was ashen, his face was haggard. His trousers did no longer cling to his bony frame.

They pierced him with needles, where he knew his nerve endings went. In those moments there was nothing there but agony. He begged for them to stop - _when_ he could raise his voice. Sometimes it failed. More than once his eyes rolled up into his skull. But they always found a way to bring him back quickly.

He almost felt relieved when they turned him on his stomach and abused his body sexually. That pain was so mundane in comparison.

If anyone had told him that just a week had passed, he would have laughed them in the face and declared that his name's James Bond and he always brings back his equipment.

That thought sobered his madness up.

_Bond_... What had become of him? And the others? Was MI6 still up and running? And how many had died? Were there more of them, tortured just like him? What did those people want? They hadn't posed one single question. Would they come for him?

All this time his captor watched. He had a plan for the young man. But that necessitated patience. He had worked in the shadows for so long. Only recently he had observed the silent attachment James Bond had formed towards his coworker. And such a useful coworker that was. My, my. He smiled to himself, while his henchmen injected the Quartermaster with a concoction of a single purpose: inflict the utmost pain without damaging any real tissue. As soon as the effect wore off and the hoarse and high-pitched - almost in-human - screaming died away, he turned the camera off.

He was looking forward to the reaction of the heads of MI6, who were still trying to gather and organize themselves, licking their wounds after the attack. It was a pathetic pack, when stripped of their most valuable asset. Maybe he should use the Quartermaster more, exploit his knowledge. Maybe he would learn something yet. But he never drifted off his plans. That was the essential rule that kept him above anybody else. Some might say, predictable, but he knew that there were way too many uncertain variables already. No, he would stick to that plan. James needed to be put in his place.

When Bond found out that the heads of MI6 had kept video footage to themselves that showed explicit torture of Q and had done NOTHING about it, he almost went rogue.

"He is your most important ASSET, Mallory! How can you NOT throw all forces into bringing him back?! Who else do you think is supposed to secure this institution?? You've got noone else like him! Noone here is capable of constructing firewalls to fend off future attacks of this kind! Wake up, man!"

If it had been anyone else but Bond, his head would have roled at this. But also Bond was right. Retrieving Q was the highest priority. Dead or alive... if anything - it was worse for him to be held in enemies' hands than losing him by execution. Alive, he even posed a threat. But Mallory did not voice those thoughts. He would see how things played out.

Unable to work on anything for lack of direction, Bond sat in a bar, trying to drink himself into oblivion. Q would have provided him with directions by now. At that thought he downed another one. Bond had seen a lot. But somehow, seeing Q lying down pale and emaciated like a skeleton, tightly secured on all four ends with chains so thick they could have held a wild animal, disturbed him more than anything he had seen before. He looked like death himself. Bond would think him dead, if it weren't for the screams. Those screams... Bond shuddered. Q was such a delicate person, always up for sarcastic remarks, yes, showing backbone whenever molested by a double-oh, - but eventually much too tender for field work. He was never meant for the dirty part of their business. He might look stern and be determined, but everyone of the agents knew that the people on the inside needed to be protected and kept from harm at all costs. They were the heart of their defence.

And ten days ago they had failed them. They had failed Q.

Anger rose in Bond at himself and at those people who had taken the young man away and subdued him to the worst kinds of torture. He swore to himself that he would get Q back - alive! And at all costs!

By now they had stripped him of the rest of his clothes and put a massive iron collar around his neck. He wasn't restrained anymore. There was no point. He didn't even have enough energy left in him to hold the collar up. So he rested his head on the floor. Same difference anyway.

Then began the training. He learned the positions he had to hold his body in. And whenever he swayed or moved but the smallest inch he was whipped and left with an empty stomach. Which again made it harder to uphold any straining positions in the first place. When he was left without food more than three days in a row, they let him make it up to them and gave him his 'well-deserved proteine' in turn. If he weren't so indifferent with the world by now, he would have been disgusted at the fact that he was grateful for something to fill his belly. So he thanked them every time. And they laughed at him. He didn't care. His thoughts were dulled by his primal needs to survive, whatever for.

Then came the day he met his captor. He didn't get to see his face of course. His head was bowed, never once looking up, as he kneeled in front of him. That's the behaviour they had beaten into him, after all. And maybe if he did it all right, he might even get some food later. So he lowered his body in submission and kept his arms crossed on his back. Never once he wavered, no matter how uncomfortable the position was, not even when his muscles started shivering uncontrollably.

"Sit down more comfortably." He heard the soft, deceivingly warm voice of his master. Shivering, Q obeyed, resting his backside on cold stone, but otherwise not lifting his gaze, looking down at the tips of his master's shoes.

"Thank you master." He answered in a meek, soft voice.

"Do you want to kiss my feet, dear?"

"Yes, please, master." Q said without hesitation, waiting for permission.

"Go ahead then." Instantly Q bent forward and placed gentle pecks on either of the shoes, sure not to leave any traces on the polished leather.

"Now that your training is complete I've decided to sell you to the highest bidder."

Shocked at the statement, Q almost forgot himself by raising his head, but caught himself in time. He flinched when he heard the warning crack of the whip coming from the corner to his right. _He must remember now that he's become a slave, property_. There was nothing else for it but to behave accordingly. Anything for the omission of pain.

After two months, when MI6 was about to give up on the quest to find Q, they finally got 'the offer'. They were invited into a highly illegal, private online auction with noone lesser than Q up for sale.

His profile was provided with a live feed of him, kneeling on the concrete with his head submissively bent down. Mallory, Tanner, Moneypenny and Bond looked at their mutilated Quartermaster in shock. There were also pictures of earlier violations and bruises, and he was praised at having a high level of pain toleration. Then there were also listed the things that he was trained to do sexually, his ability of how long to hold his breath, healthy heart, no gender diseases, etc.

After the first shock wore off, Tanner cleared his throat and said in a low and heavy voice:

"Mallory, you know we can't really participate in this auction. First of all we lack the money, and secondly, it will send the signal to all of them out there that MI6 can be blackmailed!"

"Well you have to do SOMETHING!" Bond was barely able to contain his anger and desperation. That was something that bothered him a lot here at MI6. As soon as it got bad they abandoned their people without so much as batting an eye. That was maybe fine with agents like him - they knew the risks. But with Q it was a whole different matter.

That was when something on the screen caught their eyes.

Q must have been told to raise his head in order to show his face, because now sunken big eyes stared directly at the camera, fighting to keep tears contained. The jade that last was so full of burning determination or sometimes even sparkling with mischief when they felt unobserved after an especially snarky comment towards his agent - that jade was now an empty flat and dirty green. His lower lip was trembling.

The only emotions that showed were hurt, fear and resignation. There was some grotesque beauty to the picture and it broke their hearts.

"I'll go in and get Q back, with or without your help!" Bond snapped.

"And how do you intend to raise two million pounds within a day, Bond?" Tanner hissed back. At that, Bond just smiled dangerously.

"Let me worry about that..." And with that he left.

"You can't let him seriously go in there alone?!" Moneypenny pleaded. Mallory, who had sat in silence until now, said:

"Of course not. If Bond finds a way to infiltrate them without a trace leading back to MI6, he'll have all our man power at his back! We will not abandon our Quartermaster so easily."

The meeting point was set for two days later. When Bond had come back, he bid and won the auction (strangely easy as it was). Nobody asked where he had got the money from. Then, there followed the negotiations about the meeting conditions. No weapons, no backup for Bond within a 300 yard radius. In return the meeting would take place in a public hotel lobby. Bond was also not allowed to speak until the transaction was complete, not to the henchmen and especially not to Q. Which was a very strange condition indeed. But Bond agreed. He saw no disadvantage in that.

So now he sat there at the bar, twenty minutes early. And there was noone in the lobby. _Public my ass_ , he thought. But it was too late to turn back now. And it wasn't an option with Q's life on the line anyway.

And then he saw them.

Five men in suits marched lock-step towards him, one of them in front and the others trailing behind, flanking a bony picture of misery, crawling awkwardly in their midst. He was naked and his face was directed down, while a heavy metal collar almost cut his air supply off every few steps, when the first man pulled the metal chains that functioned as his leash.

Q did his best to keep up in order not to displease his future master. Bond's heart broke and he almost forgot the conditions of their contract. He wanted to shout for Q to look up so badly, but that was not an option with him being unarmed. The apparent leader of the group smirked at Bond's expression.

That's when Bond first realized that this all might just be a plot to vex him. He had been so careful. He had sworn to never care for anyone again. Most of the time he managed to block out these thoughts. Right now, it was straining his self-control. All he could do was to not move at all, whereas all his muscles tensed, ready for any kind of assault or trap.

The man with the leash stepped forward now and handed it to Bond. The movement forced Q forwards, but he was reluctant to move. So close now, Bond could see his whole frame shivering. He wanted him so desperately to feel safe. But all he could do to get him closer was yank at the chains, which practically threw Q at his feet. Q sobbed at his mistake and tried to resume his kneeling position, gaze always down. The tension in the room was rippling through the air, as the man turned around slowly in order to retreat.

Q felt anxiety rise, as the men that - yes had tortured him for god knows how many weeks, but still - had the familiarity to them. This new master, who knows what he would do to him? He was at a point, where he knew that pain could always get worse. When no words, no touching, no bonding of any kind was forwarded by the man in front of him, he started to breathe shallowly and just when he felt that a panic attack was on the verge of crashing down on him, he did the only thing he dared: He snuggled his head tenderly to his new master's leg, almost cat-like.

Bond, whose first priority was to observe the retreating party and his surroundings for the trap to snap, - gripping the chains like  life line - was shocked at the tender movement that was so revealing of the level of humiliation Q had been experiencing. That such a gesture would feel natural to him. The Q he knew would have NEVER stooped so low to behave like that.

His instant reaction was a twitch in his foot. And since he did not dare speak yet, Q took it as a blatant rejecton. He jerked away as far as the leash would let him, sucking in a breath that sounded like a sob, and cowered down so low that his forehead touched the floor and the back of his neck was exposed to Bond, and shivering hands crossed at his back. The ultimate surrender.

Bond would have been paralyzed at the sight, had he not in mind that this was a retrieval mission and he was still in enemy territory. So the only thing he could do now, was play by the rules and get Q out of here. He got up in a rush and not allowed to voice a command, he had to pull the young man by the leash. His pressing instinct to get away from this place also left no room for gentleness.

Q, who had not reckoned on the sudden movement, whimpered lowly and was practically dragged along by his collar. Trying to keep his head lowered, his hands sought desperately to catch his balance and keep up with the speed of his new master. As soon as they left the building, the coldness enwrapped Q completely.

Olivious to the new ordeal his Quartermaster had to suffer, Bond pressed forward, ever watchful. He had to move down two blocks. Thankfully it was night and nobody was there to see them, seemingly.

As soon as they had reached the car of their destination, Bond opened the door to the backseat and lifted the poor heap of bones that was Q inside and got in himself. Immediately they pulled out and drove off towards Headquarters.

As Bond had seated himself, he realized that Q had crouched down at his feet, still entirely naked. Now that the danger was over, Bond could finally tell him to look up, that he was safe now, that nobody would harm him anymore. But somhow the words wouldn't leave his lips. It felt to him like the omission of eye contact was the only barriere that held the pain at bay. He did not want to see those haunted eyes. It was so selfish.

He had to blink a few times to keep it together and drew a silent breath. Finally he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around Q.

Q froze. He was shocked at the unexpected kindness. He could not deal with kindness now. All he knew was punishment for bad behaviour, and the occasional reward in form of food, when he managed to be a good boy. He could not deal with kindness. It would break him completely. He had adjusted now, the change of treatment confused his whole composure. A violent shiver went through his body.

"Th-thank you, master." He barely got the words out.

That was the moment Bond could no longer hold back. He gripped Q by the sides and pulled him up to sit. In pure distress, Q tried to shy away, it all contradicted to what he was taught. He was NOT to sit up. And then again he was NOT allowed to withstand any of his master's will. Desperately he tried to dive back down, head first.

"No! No, I'm sorry, m-master. Don't ... don't, please. I'll get punished...!" But Bond took his face in a tight grip and forced him to look up at him. Q's eyes went wide at the sudden eye contact. In his panic he didn't recognize Bond yet. He knew he had to be punished for it. A tear made its way down his cheek.

"Look at me, Q! LOOK!" Only a moment later, after he blinked he identified the familiar face, but it was Bond's voice that flipped the switch.

"James...?" He hesitantly uttered. Drawing a shaky breath, it turned into a sob, which again turned into uncontrollable weeping, when realization hit him.

"Sh, I've got you. You're safe now." Bond took Q in his arms and held him tight. The young man was completely drenched in tears and had falled asleep by the time they reached MI6, all the while in James' arms.

Glad that the Quartermaster was back safe now, the agent's thoughts drifted off. Somebody had kidnapped the person with the keys to almost everything in MI6. And yet it seemed that no damage had been done to their institution. It almost looked like their enemy was playing with them. With Bond.

There were only two possibilities for the purpose of this scheme. One was to damage Q, possibly beyond repair, to compromise MI6, but Bond thought - hoped - that Q would be strong enough to recover from this. So it made no sense. The second idea that came to mind was that somebody had it in for Bond. And after Q had told him, what he knew, it was all clear for him.

Q had not been questioned. The only thing they told him was to remember one word.

"They told me, it would be my safeword with my new master." He snorted.

"What was the word?" Bond inquired.

"Spectre."


End file.
